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Books lined the room, from floor to ceiling. We took them down, one by one, and built towers of books, taller than the room itself. We cut holes in the ceiling above and sorted them according to color, to size, to author’s name, to “books we liked” and “books we resented.”

John Ray, in 1671, extracted pure acid by the spiritous distillation of crushed red ant remains. What have I done, today, as acerbic or sodding perfect? As consummate, complete, thoroughgoing and stark, as virtuous and undiluted? Where has time gone, immaculate and symphonious?

We retreat to synthesize commodities and knit, the world described as indescribable, (or perhaps an oasis of awesome: approachable by all, one or none.)